The Hawk's Cry
by Burnt Alice
Summary: A familiar look, yet so different than the one she seems to resemble. She shares a connection to one of the knights. But which and what is it? OCTristan I won't be finishing this, sorry!
1. Prologue

**The Hawk's Cry**

_Prologue_

When this life is over,  
I'll know the world had turned.  
To clover green.

When I've taken my final turn,  
I'll know the world had tried,  
To burn purple.

When I've breathed my last breath,  
I'll know the world had taken,  
To death in yellow.

And when the hawk flies,  
And when I hear its cry,  
I'll know its saying,  
The End to all.


	2. Chapter One

_Chapter One_

The light of day shifted, flickering before finally disappearing behind the endless trees. No smoke rose from the smouldering fire, a trick she had learned sometime ago, in a far off life she preferred to not remember. But the twinge of smoke scent flared her mount's nostrils, his tail swishing in the carrying breeze. Had anyone stumbled upon them, they would meet their quick end for she had her bow fully drawn. Her eyes twitching in the darkness, watching the Blue Ghosts no more then five horse lengths away. From beneath her dark hood, her eyes were all knowing. She saw their exact movements that they thought to be stealth, they thought they were invisible.

There were more, she knew this. She was grossly outnumbered and she should have been spotted. The ghosts had been tracking her, they had been for days and she knew why. It was a secret and she would never share it, to no one, to no avail. She would not cast a light upon a past not easily forgotten. She tried not to be shocked that she had not been discovered. The blue roan beneath her whickered. She would never underestimate her enemy, another lesson learned in a lifetime ago.

Something moved behind her. She knew the sound. A horse, unmistakably a horse with a rider taller then she and they had a bow drawn. They smelled of the forest, a scout. Yes, a scout and a good one to. Countless times scouts had "snuck" up on her only to meet an end. This one had caught her, they had rightfully won. Not that there was anything to be won. She could still win. It was a pity that such a good scout should have to die. But dare she turn away from her trackers? Before such a decision could be made, an arrow flew past her head, striking a Blue Ghost.

She saw her opening and she took the advantage of the moment. She was quick, this to she knew. Her arrow returned to her quiver as she stood upon the saddle of the blue roan, only to disappear. A ghost, she knew the scout would think. Now was her time to strike, to watch her only threat whither and die. But one before two, as four follows three. Her mount in the open would not do. Her horse's blood smeared her hand, that nightmare she had dreamt twice before. She would not allow it to be true to its image. "Ride!"

The scout looked up and saw nothing. Well hidden among the trees, leaves she watched her horse galloped out of sight. 'Time for a glimpse of my scout.' She leaned forward, just enough to see but not enough to be seen. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes danced over the scout, seeing something far different then she had expected. A Sarmatian, a knight of the round table. She leaned forward more, forgetting they were not alone. She did not hear the hum of the arrow until the silence stung the air and the pain clipped her shoulder.

Five times she was struck. Once in the shoulder, the first shot. Thrice in the back, then once in her right thigh, the last shots. She fell from the tree landing face down in the moss and the five arrows protruding from all angles. There was pain. Lot's of pain and it dripped out through those five holes deep within her skin. She had never worn armour. Only the **vambraces** and greaves. She was hardly ever in combat, she chose to stay away. She rather shoot her bow, but she could fight. She had a sword, she could fight in combat. But only with one combatant because she had nothing but a quiver full of arrows and a roan she had named Arvakur to watch her back.

There she lay, motionless in the moss. The five arrows puncturing her dark cloak. Pity almost flowed through his veins. If she had not been some rogue Roman, he may have felt sorry. But he felt compelled to visit the woman even though his experience said otherwise. For once in his life, he listened to not smarts but to the odd feeling of importance.

It took mere seconds before the Woad presence vanished. Only then did he drop his bow and dismount to check the fallen Roman. He set his bow beside the black body before looking to the wounds. They appeared somewhat minor; he had suffered many like them. Though, he wished he had not. Only a bit of curiosity plagued his mind. Why did she not move?

She stirred only to breathe in rasping breaths. Her cloak shifted and he found himself staring at no Roman. Her long exotic black curls were pulled back in a coral pin. She would have been exotic to any Roman. But Roman he was not. Sarmatian blood flooded his veins as did it pump the injured woman's life. He ran his finger over the marking on the skin just below her ear, two claw markings. "Roxolani."

The girl's eyes swung open at the sound of her tribe's name. But she did not move her lips to form words. Instead, she drew a breath in, closing her eyes again. He realized then what she was doing. She was trying to conserve energy. He remembered being taught that back home. Save it for staying alive.

A whinny prickled his ears. He knew it was not his own horse, for the girl's blue roan stepped closer to its rider. He stood, going to his mount. The Sarmatian was going to bleed out if he did not take her back to the camp his brother knights had made. If she had been any one else, if she had been Roman he would not have felt guilt in leaving her to die. But there was something about her, not just the Sarmatian blood. Something almost familiar about her. He pulled his horse forward then turned around intending to pick the rider up and place her upon his mount. But the roan had kneeled beside its master, allowing her to use her one good arm to pull herself onto its back, gripping its mane.

"Ah," he went to pat the now standing horse but it bared its teeth wide, causing him to pull them back. "Follow me then, Roan." The horse bowed its head like it understood and followed the mounted scout. His eyes watched the trees, only glancing back to the Roxolani when he heard movement. No sound came from her body, lying over the pommel of her saddle.

The bushes rustled behind the knights but none stirred from their sleep. 'And if I was a Woad or worse, a Saxon, I would kill them all,' he thought with a smirk. No matter, they would wake soon enough, though, both riders remained silent and their mounts only breathed.

The first knight to stir was Lancelot, with no surprise. He could smell female flesh from miles away. Now one was in their camp. "'Eh, Tristan, what followed you back?" Arthur rose, followed by Galahad, Gawain, Bors, and Dagonet. The scout looked to the female, expecting some sort of glare. But none came. "I do not know. She's injured. Five arrows. Woads."

Dagonet rushed forward to look at the wounds. He pulled back the hood and Tristan awaited the question. But it did not come from the tall knight. The knight's eyes only rested upon on the girl's face for a moment before looking away to the arrows. He mumbled something about minor wounds and lifted her away.

That's when it happened. The girl's eyes opened and met Lancelot's. Both were silent, both staring at each other. She looked away, alarm filling her dark eyes. Dagonet didn't notice and Lancelot turned away, disappearing into the trees. "Tristan, a word." His commander seemed to order more then ask. So, of course, he followed. Arthur searched out a secluded spot just outside of the other knights' earshot before opening his mouth again. "Tristan, who is she and why was she harmed and not you?" The scout gazed at the trees to their right before attempting an answer. "I haven't the slightest idea of who she is. She's Sarmatian though. She's a Roxolani. I was tracking maybe ten Woads when I found her. She was watching them. I think they were tracking her. One was approaching her that she didn't notice so I killed it. Then she disappeared into the tree above. I guess she was still visible and they let loose the five arrows."

The commander just gazed at the scout. He could sense that his commander thought he withheld information. He hadn't. Not really. Arthur had apparently not seen the connection between the woman and Lancelot. Though, Tristan had not pieced it out yet, he saw the tension that had passed between the two. There was a connection, a big connection. It wasn't clear yet to him. But he knew it was surface as soon as the girl spoke. He had the sneaking suspicion she would not speak. He thought to soon.


	3. Chapter Two

A review yey!

Cardeia- Thank you. Not quite sure what you meant. xD But yeah. She's bother familiar, yet very strange. 33 

_Chapter Two_

"Get away from me! Don't touch me! I'll kill you all." The two men rushed back into the camp to see the girl holding a sword to the other knights. They had a look of bewilderment. The arrows were not imbedded in her skin and there was bandaging around her thigh, but he guessed not around her other wounds. Tristan looked around and noticed Lancelot was still not present. "Arvakur, here now." The roan trotted over to its master, clearly aware of her words. The horse amazed him. It seemed to understand its master's ever whim. "Lady, kindly drop your sword. I'm sure Dag only meant to help you."

A smirk wrapped onto Tristan's lips as she spat at the tall knight's feet. "Never will I take command from a Roman." Arthur looked dumbfounded at the malice in her voice. "Kindly, let me leave and I shall not bother you any longer." Dag shook his head and turned around, which was clearly a mistake for the female took her chance. She stepped forward wrapping an arm around the knight's neck. Whose mistake now came was unreadable. For, Tristan knew that the knight could overpower her, but could he outsmart her? Dag's arm elbowed her ribs and she fell onto the dirt, her arm holding her kneeling frame off the ground. The knight turned around to defend himself of another attack, but none came. Only a smirk grew behind the fence of hair. She was planning something. "Dagonet!"

The knight fell flat on his back as her leg spun around, knocking him down. She was on top of him in less then one beat of his heart, a dagger held to his neck. The knight's arms pinned beneath her weight. She smirked again and then rolled free of the knight. She could have killed him then and there. She was smart, this was very evident now. He almost respected her and he was the only knight who had not drawn out his sword, but nor had Arthur. "Lady, drop your sword or you will die." His commander spoke again.

"You underestimate her, Arthur." All the knights' heads spun around to see their fellow brother Lancelot standing behind them. "She would kill at least one of us before we could even fell an arrow, even in her weakened state. She is Roxolani, she is trained well." Surprise dripped from all of the knights, even he. The relationship between Lancelot and the girl was growing stronger and stronger. There was definitely a connection between the two. But what the true nature of it was a mystery still and he suspected it would remain so for a long while if not forever. Arthur's voice then caved to the will of Lancelot, a feat that none could manage. Though, Tristan had countless times. "Drop your weapons, knights."

The knights reluctantly lowered their weapons at the order of the commander as did the woman. Tristan turned and went to his horse, seeing that everything was calm now, though the other knights clearly didn't think so. "What is your name Lady?" Tristan only listened as he checked his mount over. She was reluctant to speak and he glanced to her, following her hard glare to Lancelot. He sighed, tension was building again. She wasn't answering. They were silently fighting, that Tristan could tell without looking at them. "My name is Leilia." Lancelot said nothing to Tristan's surprise. He was growing annoyed with the constant glare Lancelot had laid on the woman's face. "And your business here, Lady Leilia? You travelled all the way from Sarmatia for what reason?"

He turned around again to watch the scene. She swallowed, he saw how she hesitated. Tristan smirked; she was full of anger and hatred. Her face betrayed her emotions. Her jaw was clenched, her nostrils flared, and her dark eyes screamed fire. Her breath came in ragged intervals and he could not tell if that was from her rage or her weakening state. "I did not come from Sarmatia. I have not been in Sarmatia for many years, too many years." He watched her teeth grinding together. "As to the reason, that is none of your business, Roman. Now, I will be leaving. Arvakur."

The horse made no move to the woman's dismay. He whinnied quietly before lowering his head to the dirt for a long sniff. "Seems your horse has no want to leave, Lady Leilia," Gawain chimed. She scowled before her hand came swiftly down to grasp the reins. The horse did not budge; instead it chomped a tuff of grass. "Stubborn, I see. You should get a better mount. One that listens." Her face was reddening. He couldn't help but be amused by the display. Gawain was getting to her. "You remind me of something, you know." Her head snapped up with an intense glare, she looked suddenly nervous. "Yes, this wench at the tavern." She seemed almost relieved.

"And you remind me of someone also, knight." Her voice rang cool in the night. "This wench I met not long before. Perhaps you know her? Maybe you two were inbred." Then she laughed. It was like bells ringing in the breeze. Tristan did not show the affect it had on him. No, he was not the one to show how he felt. But it was mesmerizing, beautiful to his ears. He swallowed hard, glancing around to the other knights. They didn't seem to feel the same effect. His eyes danced to Lancelot, he saw something different. He was affected by it. But so different then what Tristan felt. He definitely knew something. There was definitely something there. Ah, but the sound of a woman truly laughing, he had missed the sound.

The silence disturbed her. It was like they had all stopped breathing as soon as her laugh poured from her lips. It almost scared her. But the most disturbing thing was the intense stares she was now getting. The ones from the majority of the knights didn't faze her. No, just those two. Her captor and that of Lancelot. They were gazing deeply at her. Her captor hadn't spoken in a long time and Lancelot had only spoken to come to her defence, she guessed. It wasn't like his intentions of warning the one in charge were all the clear. "Fine, Lady. Leave now and you will most likely die of infection or bleed out from your wounds."

She pulled Arvakur to her, he gladly followed. "I don't recommend leaving. You will die." She looked up to the voice, not recognizing the husky, deep sound. Her stomach jolted as her eyes connected with the scout. His gaze was hard, meaningless, and full of nothing. It was a blank stare. Normally, she would have tossed it aside. But now she felt deeply drawn to it. Like it was pulling her in, like she was sinking in his weightless gaze. She would not break his gaze. Everyone was silent around them, that is, she thought they were. She could not hear their silent whispers.

"As do I," She knew that voice, even now she knew it. Yes, Lancelot had spoken again and she wasn't remembering how he had spoken moments ago. No, and she didn't recognize his voice in whole. It was the underlying boyish tone that played over and over in her memory. She shook her head, breaking her gaze with the scout. She allowed her eyes to fall on Lancelot. She felt a little remorse, only a little regret in taking her eyes off the scout's. She nearly broke open then when her eyes connected to Lancelot's and she was thrown into a memory.

But she stabbed it back; she fought the memory until remembering was a memory, an inkling in time. "Stay, Leilia, and allow Dagonet to heal your wounds. Then you may leave." She almost growled but she did not, she held back. The tall one, she took for Dagonet, stood but she could tell he was not doing something he wished. Following Lancelot's clear order left her some dignity. At least, the healer was wary of healing her. She at least had some solace in that.

"Fine, Lancelot. But do not expect to see me again in the morn or ever, for that matter." She would have smirked at the flash of hurt in his eyes but Dagonet was giving her a hard glare. He wanted to see her wounds. "Alright, alright! But I will not show or give you access to my wounds if they're all watching." All the knights turned away except one. She took it to be the youngest. He looked young at least. He was staring, wide-eyed like he had not seen a woman in months and he had probably not. She knew, for a fact, that they were a good week's ride from the wall. At least, a week's ride for a caravan. She stayed away for this reason. "And you, Sir Knight, stare any longer and you will not have eyes when you awake and if I'm especially annoyed, maybe you won't be a man when you wake up." The knight's eyes widened again before they darted to the ground where she knew they would stay. She caught a glimpse of the three smirks flashed her way. One from Lancelot, one from the fat one, and one from the scout.


	4. Chapter Three

_Chapter Three_

Screams, there were screams. Someone was screaming. They were close, they were near. Why were they screaming? The screamer is beside me, they're behind me. Oh someone save them. I can't move. There are hands on me. Six hands. What are they doing? The screamer is silent, they're whimpering. Why are the hands on me? I wish they wouldn't, I wish they'd stop. It felt good, no this is wrong. Why is this wrong? It hurts, I'm cold. Make it stop. Make them stop. I'm crying, I'm screaming. Help, oh someone help. Someone, please. I beg you, stop them. They're gone. The screamer is quiet. No, no, he was talking. "Shh. You're dreaming, stop screaming or you'll wake the others."


	5. Chapter Four

_Chapter Four_

The girl was thrashing again. She was mumbling to. But it was incoherent. She wasn't making sense. Then it went quiet again. She was not moving. She wasn't making noises. That is, until she let out a panicked scream. He winced, almost covering his ears. What was wrong with her? He picked his way through the now tossing harem of knights to her side away from the group. Maybe it was the herbs Lancelot had forced Dagonet to give her, it was something to make her sleep so she wouldn't leave. He shook his head, she was a prisoner. He didn't like holding people captive, unless, of course, they were enemies. But even then, he rather kill them and be rid of the stench.

Tears were streaming her face. Fear etched every shadow that the full moon had painted. Why was she afraid? What was scaring the seemingly fearless woman? He laid his hands on her shoulders, gently shaking her awake, "Shh. You're dreaming, stop screaming or you'll wake the others." Tristan sighed as the girl quieted to a few whimpers. That's when he noticed her bare arms; they were peppered with small bumps. She was cold. He felt the overwhelming urge to stroke her skin until the evidence of the cold vanished beneath his fingertips. But he mentally stabbed himself for thinking such foolish things. His eyes swept the area for a cloak to put over her shivering frame. She slept on her own. He sighed again, taking his own to cover the body beside him.

As soon as his warm cloak touched her body, her eyes snapped open. They shone with such fear that Tristan's eyes softened. For once, he showed the emotion he held. He shivered as he felt her cold hand snake out and plant a firm grip on his arm, "They're coming." That was all she said before her eyelids closed and her breathing deepened. Her grip did not cease.

There was a rustle behind him, his head spun to face the noise. Twenty or more Woads glared weapons ready. "Woads!" The rest of the knights scrambled up, weapons in hand and ready to fight. The woman sat up like she had been caught off guard. She looked at Tristan and her eyes flew to her hand on his arm. Disgust rang through her eyes as she pulled it back. He rose, drawing his sword.

She blinked, staring at the scene around her. There were Woads, seemingly everywhere around her. The Woads did not surprise her; it was waking to have her hand on the scout's arm. She actually had expected the Woads to return. They had after all, lost their bargaining tool; they had lost her to the knights. The exact opposite of what they planned. She didn't plan on saying with either of the groups. She felt groggy, she felt like she had burned the seeds her tribe used in ceremonies.

A Woad fell beside her, the young knight panting where the Woad used to stand. "Lady, you either fight and defend yourself or die. I can't protect you all the time." Leilia let her growl sound this time. In one motion her body rose, flinging the cloak from her body. She crouched slightly, pulling a dagger from her thigh high leather riding boots. She smirked as she turned, quickly connecting her dagger to a Woad behind the knight. "We are even then," The knight smiled, feeling her back against the front of his not armoured chest. "We are even, Lady. I am Galahad." He swung around her, using his short sword to pierce another Woad's belly.

"Call me, Leilia, Knight." Her bow drew back, letting loose three arrows at once. "Galahad, Leilia." She smirked again, before fading into the small battle. Woads fell around her, but not by her sword. Her bow swung around onto her back, her sword now in hand. Fireworks exploded in her vision, spraying her onto the soft ground. She rolled to her back, glaring up at a tall Woad. "You," his lean body towered over her as she stood, "shall die now." He smirked, a wrong move. Her sword stung the air, singing gently in harmony with his body. A splash of blood showered her face as his neck exposed to air.

Another attack from behind, she smelt him coming. He was slow for a Woad. Perhaps he was older, out of his prime. She need to confirm her suspicion. Her body whirled around to face her attacker, she was right. He was elder then the rest of the warriors. Some respect emanated from her towards their race. They allowed anyone to fight, like her own. Romans pampered their women until they screeched in the face of blood and their nails held more importance over a sword. Her sword returned to her scabbard as the familiar 'zing' of coiled wire against wooden beads sounded in the air. She easily spun around him in a sloppy crescent. The garrotte pulled tight around his neck, choking his life away; bit by bit she smothered his flame slowly until a trickle of blood flowed from the corners of his mouth. His body fell to the ground at her feet with a dull thud. She half expected another attack, but none came. Her eyes lifted to the knights, taking stock of what they had done. Her eyes connected to Lancelot's momentarily but she whipped them away only for them to fall onto the scout. He nodded slightly, like he acknowledged her for something.

"Five," Dagonet called from a few metres away.

"Three," The fat one called from further.

"Four," The one called Galahad called back.

"Six," called their commander.

"Five, no six," Lancelot seemed the happiest.

"Five as well," the lion groaned.

"Seven," The dull emotionless voice sounded in her ears. She sighed, feeling suddenly inadequate compared to the seasoned knights. "And you?' She coughed. Why was it the scout didn't acknowledge her by name or even called her Lady? She shook her head.

"Only three," she murmured. The knights were silent. Why did they not speak? "Who killed that Woad then?" Her eyes drew up to the Blue Ghost the scout pointed to. Three head shots. One even made it into the eye. All the knights shook their heads. "Had no time to draw my bow," the fat one seemed oddly disappointed. All eyes turned on her, all posing the same question. 'Did you?' She didn't need to answer. "Yeah, she did it. She wasn't looking either." She groaned, seeing Galahad peering at the arrows. "Besides, it's obvious. Her arrows are different then any of ours."

"When did you learn bow, Leilia? The Roxolani don't use bows." She bit her lip, waiting for the iron to touch her tongue before she looked to Lancelot. He looked almost worried. "Many years ago," she sighed as she spoke. He opened his mouth again, closed it, and then shook his head. She restrung her garrotte into the painted black and white beads as she walked back to where she had slept. She could hear the knights discussing what had happened. "Why would they attack? We are not above the wall. We're too far south of the wall to warrant this attack." She kept her eyes low, trying not to direct attention to herself. "We work for the Romans; we are targets no matter where we go. The Woads are barbaric, they will kill us no matter where." The lion spoke then.

"I do not think that they attacked us for that reason. They attacked us because of the one we are harbouring." The knights looked at her again, wonder filling their eyes. She turned around, glaring down the scout. She wanted to march over to him and kill him. But somehow, she knew that she could not. He could probably kill her faster then she could unsheathe her sword. Still, she better think something up before they asked questions. "They would not be after me," she held the scout's gaze, "if it were not for you knights." Her eyes went back to her stallion, searching for injuries. There were none. The horse bowed to accommodate his injured rider as she sorely mounted him.

"Where are you headed, Lady?" She turned her head to the side, letting her hair fall behind her face. She looked to the commander trying to decide what answer was best. She had not chosen the proper answer to the previous unasked question. They would have more questions and she didn't intend to stay around for them. She didn't trust any of them. Even if they were of her country, they had suffered far too many years in the Roman world and no matter how much they denied it, they had some Roman flowing through their veins. "Where ever Arvakur sees fit, Roman, and I can promise that will not be any where near you and your prisoners."

One of the knights coughed and she had a sneaking suspicion of who it was. She nodded to the scout, her eyes completely missing Lancelot's. She clicked her tongue and the roan stepped into motion. Two hooves above the ground at a time as he weaved around the trees. Her eyes held forward, scanning each tree as it passed. She did not feel the eyes following her from all directions and she did not see them. But they saw her, they were always watching and they say her tracker.


	6. Chapter Five

I noticed I left the 'unfinished' sign on the document. xD Oops. Forgive my clumsiness. I fixed that now. It was finished and I have changed nothing in this edit besides the absence of the unfinished thing. Thanks for the reviews! I forgot to add them in aswell.

KnightMaiden- Ah, the coupling shan't be obvious and shan't be what you will think.  
Exile of Numenor-As am I, as am I. I know the end, the beginning, but the middle eludes me as it does you.

Note: On devART I gave a few hints as to the clues I left in this chapter. I encourage you to journey there and read those clues. The major one was: Names are the key to our past, present, and the furture of our lives. 3 Good lucky. I also left a link to a website I recommened to start your research from. Lmao. Go to my page, find my devart ID, and then venture there. Search for my deviation titled:THC Fly me Home - Chapter 5. Enjoy, my friends.

_Chapter Five_

The girl rode off, her image bleeding into the trees as the light of morning finally started to curse its gift on the clearing, showing all the lifeless bodies. He had coughed when she bluntly insulted Rome, Arthur, and the knights. Though, more so the first two. For, he too saw them as prisoners. They were bond by something they had not agreed to and it had come at too high a price. Many of them died in attacks like these. How many of them would survive the next five years? Not many, that he knew. He didn't welcome his death, but he didn't fear it. He would grasp it with open arms of his gods called his name. Who was he to deny them of their punishment after life? "Tristan, go after her. Do not return unless you have her."

"Arthur?" He cocked his brow, "do you honestly think we should grad her back here?" Then commander only glared at him. "Fine, I shall go get our prisoner, Arthur," his words dripped in acid and he didn't show the smirk that was clear in his head as his commander winced. His hand ran down the neck of his horse and he was rewarded with a sweet nicker from the pinto mare.

"I'll go, Arthur. Save Tristan the bother. He obviously does not want to go." The black knight stepped forward, his eyes not even touching Tristan's or Arthur's. No, instead his dark eyes held the path in view. Only the trail she had made before gracefully pulling off the deer trail into the forest. "I can track her. She's—she's not that hard to track." Tristan's eyes looked to Lancelot, sensing the sudden change in the knight's voice and mood. He had meant to say otherwise but had caught himself before he could.

"Ah, Lancelot, I believe she knows how to not be tracked." The cold eyes of the dark knight turned on hi, sending shivers through his mind. "No, I'll go and I'll be back before high noon." He felt Lancelot's ice stare follow him as he drew his leg up to his mare's stirrup. Tristan gripped the horn of the leather saddle, worn from years of being ridden, but a strong hand grabbed his arm. In a low whisper licked Tristan's ear like fire did Lancelot say, "bring her back here, reasonably unharmed."

Her hand went to the metal hilt of her unjeweled sword as her ears prickled, sound passing the cartilage and escaping down into her brain. The roan stopped, sensing his rider's sudden stillness. Her eyes disappeared behind four fronts of thick lashes as she tried to deepen her hearing. There was something there or, perhaps, someone. She let her fingers reach for the bow upon her back; it nested perfectly into her grasp. Her left arm extended over her chest, resting against her right thigh, her bow gripped tightly. The right of her limbs notched an arrow then fell to rest upon the string, ready to draw back at the slightest movement.

A rift of scent filled her nostrils, echoing in her memory. The trees, pine trees, spruce trees, and maybe a hint of something else lingering together, spinning and turning in the air as she breathed it all in. Something spicy and maybe even sweet. A pink snake whispered across her lips then hid in the shadows of her mouth only to be followed as her teeth dragged across the pink cliff. Yes, she remembered the smell, the sound even. It was like millions of voices singing in the most beautiful swish all blending into a sea of motion. Every voice floating in the wind, singing to the beat of the horse beneath. The deep lingering smell moved, switching to her other side. Close, the smell was close. Sweet, spicy grass. Home, she smelled the scent of the grass.

In an instant her bow rose, like lightning did her right hand pull the string back to her ear. Her eyelids split, staring at the mounted warrior. The edge of the arrow quivered slightly as her fingers twitched. "You shouldn't have followed me, Knight." She smirked, but did not lower her bow. Her arms stayed taught but not stiff and rigid like many archers. She had learned well. Arms strong, unable to be hit out of place, but loose enough to swing to another target or to switch weapons.

"And I would have not followed if I was not ordered to do so." His blank gaze touched her mind again. He was probing her, sending tendrils into her head, trying to feel what she thought. Her jaw clenched, ignoring his obvious yet oblivious attempts to search her for emotion. To be true, she never was one to mask her emotions, though she could control them. She had the overwhelming feeling that she had to look away, break their eye contact before he could read her thoughts.

"You were ordered?" She raised her brow, forcing her eyes on his hands that fingered the edge of his own bow. "Who ordered you? Did Lancelot?" I bet he did. Can he do that?" Her bow arm fell, the arrow tip hitting Arvakur's soft body; he swung around to hit the knight's horse. The mare neighed as it made a sharp turn, trying to evade the stallion. Leilia leaned back, gazing down at the knight. "Mmm, not steady are we?"

The sudden personality shift had got him off guard. One moment she was stone, only worrying about whether he knew what she was thinking. Then the next, as soon as she said Lancelot she changed. Her bow had hit her horse who had, in turn, spooked his mare who had jerked so suddenly he fell from her back.

A snort of hot air ruffled his hair as the pinto mare sniffed him. He pulled himself to a stand, masking his embarrassment in his fall. Tristan looked at her eyes again, they betrayed her emotion. Her stone expression could not cover the laughter in her eyes. For an odd reason he felt the need to smile as he remembered how she had laughed earlier. The same bell like sound emitted from her eyes. He hadn't felt the need to smile in so long now. It reminded him of something.

An image flashed in his mind, a hawk flying above the clouds, dipping its wings to allow itself a slow descent. Then in one fluid motion it pulled the wing muscles back and its beak dove down, angling into a fast dive. Its body hurtled towards the ground at unnatural speeds then suddenly stopped, levelling into a silent glide, tranquility taking over from the thrill of the dive. Then with a few strokes of its wings, it climbed again only to fall into a dive before levelling. Yes, the last time he had felt the need to smile was once when he lay in the tall grass watching the beginnings of his most cherished relationship blooming. The freedom he felt with his hawk.

This woman so familiar in her accent, her appearance, and the skill of her weapons remind him so much of home. But there was something else that gave a tang, a twist to her familiarity. He couldn't quite place what it reminded him of. She had this different air about her then any other person he had met. She held herself so different, with something he didn't remember ever seeing. Not pride, she wasn't humble. It struck him, freedom. She had freedom and she held herself up with the thought of being able to go anywhere and to be anything.

A wave of bitterness came over the knight as he glanced back to the archeress, he envied her freedom. "Lancelot did not order me to follow you. My commander ordered that I bring you back or not return." She sat up straight, suddenly rigid again. Something panged as the laughter in her eyes withered as if it were a candle and diminished into nothing, into anger. Her teeth grinded together. "It was Lancelot who said to bring you back no matter what and that you had to come back reasonably unharmed." A smirk played across her lips then as she whispered the words back to herself.

Then her eyes turned on him again, but this time they brought yet another side of her. Still the odd unconnected, still the laughing, still the anger, still the stone, and yet, something totally different. "Fine scout, you may bring me back to your commander if you can out do me. If you cannot then you must swear to not try and bring me back. Understood?" He nodded, unsheathing his curved sword. The pinto mare moved away with a small tap on her hindquarters. She dismounted, pulling her sword from her hip scabbard then reaching over the horse and drawing another. Two long, thin swords grasped in her hands fell away from her legs at an angle. "Ready scout?"

"You fight with two swords?" She watched his brow raise as she nodded. "Like Lancelot, I know. We had the same teacher, he was--" The swords slipped from her mouth slowly and then stopped coolly. Her eyes scoring deep holes in his own. "He was a skilled teacher, he travelled many tribes." A smirk rounded her lips, she knew he would be able to tell when she lied. That she had picked up since he had tried to read her. So, she naturally, assumed the tactic of not lying, nor telling the truth wholly. Her teacher had been skilled and had travelled to many tribes. That was no lie. She spotted the slight disappointment with the rest of her statement as he sighed. "Shall we start or shall we sit here like Roman woman and gossip about the past?"

"Fine, it is your fate to return to our camp." She narrowed her eyes, standing still and watching. They spoke no more, letting what was to come to happen. They both knew that neither could possibly expect to win. No, they had both seen each other fight, or rather, Tristan had seen her and she assumed he was a skilled fighter. She knew better then to assume, but in this case, she was more then assuming. He had that air. He was confident with his sword, that she could tell by the way he had unsheathed it. One motion and it was clean out and ready to attack even in his relaxed stance. They just watched each other. Not daring to take the first move. She gazed around the trees, searching for something to her advantage. There was nothing to help either of them. The trees could work for a shield, but what coward would hide? Her eyes slid over a high elm and she hissed, seeing the Woad. But there was no time. She wanted to finish this with the knights first. Then she would slaughter the lower class pests.

The knight took one step and she countered with another. That was how the dance started. One step forward, one to the left, one back, one the right. Their swords remained poised at their sides, ready to strike at any moment. She felt the Woads watching them, feeling the tension. She longed to strike with her sword, to feel the metal spark against metal. It had been far too long since she had fought a true sword fight. She groaned, stepping forward, and then smiled as he to took the step. They were now only a sword's length away. Either of them could swing and strike. It was her move, this she knew. One sword parted the air above her head as the other swung around the side, the blade first. He blocked both attacks and his sword dived in to attack. But one of her one came and clashed, the other flying above her head again to come crashing down.

But he moved out of the reach of her swords. She growled, swinging her swords around. They were like batons in her arms, moving constantly. Under her arm, over her head, around her torso. But each time failing as his sword stopped them. She backed off, breathing for a second and watching him as he watched her. "You fight well; this teacher was very skilled, what was his name?" She stepped forward, snaking her sword between his and his body. He jerked back carelessly and her other sword whipped out to nick his cheek. "His name was Pant," she spoke softly, almost reverently towards the name of her teacher. She let her swords sit at her sides, not lifted and not ready to attack, her mistake was made then for he took this chance.

Air swished pasted her ear as the blunt end of his sword hilt smacked against her head. Her head reeled as her knees fell into the mossy woodland ground. A blade of metal rested on her jugular. She growled, sensing her defeat on her heels. But, no, not yet. She wouldn't give up even if it all looked bleak. Ah, she had learned that too in another lifetime. "Seems you have caught me, Knight." The knight did not show a smirk of triumph, nor seemed to be even affected by his thought-to-be-win. He didn't even appear to have thought he had one for he did not remove his blade from her neck. She knew he was waiting for her to admit her defeat. Yes, yes he was smart. He knew when to accept a win because you need two to dance. "You win, Knight."

The blade at her neck didn't move for many moments like he was truly waiting for her mind to accept her lose. But he would gain no such triumph from her. A minor defeat didn't mean she was defeated. No, she could still win this fight. He had outsmarted her in that moment, feeding off the weakness that came when she remembered her teacher. It was like a wound reopening after a scab had covered, like blood creaked through the crevices. Finally, his removed his sword, sheathing it before putting his hand out to help her up. "Such manners, you should really learn better ones." He gave her a glare, perhaps the most emotional thing he had done since they had drawn swords. Then he looked away and Leilia pounced upon her chance as he had earlier.

There had been no sound, no sign to warn him of what she was doing. He had been careful; waiting until he was perfectly sure she wasn't planning anything. But, obviously, he had not waited long enough. She had hit with the thud of a boulder, sending him flat onto his stomach. His arms were pinned beneath him as he had tried to break his fall, she perched on his hand. Her fingers snaked into his hair, yanking it back so his entire head followed, and then her dagger slid into place on his throat. "I do believe, Knight, that I've beaten you." She smirked, hearing his groan. She took the dagger away, only to pull his sword from his scabbard. "I will take these to ensure my safety. Now, stay where you are or I'll have to kill you." She moved, patting down his frame for anymore weapons. She found the daggers in his boots, the throwing knives in his armour, the dagger in his belt, and many other weapons. The entire time he did not budge to her surprise. "May I move now then?"

"Fine, you are free to move." She packed his last dagger into her saddle bag, turning to watch him stand, rubbing his head. "Sorry about your hair, it was necessary." He glared at her, walking towards his horse. She then realized she hadn't searched his horse for weapons. Her eyes widened, waiting what he would pull out. But again to her surprise, he drew no weapon. She even had his bow and arrows safely with hers. "You aren't even going to try and get your weapons back, Knight?" She had never been confused more in her life. No, she had been. But that was so long ago. Too long ago that she did not remember the moment when she had been so confused, so lost that she completely blocked that time from her memory. Though, she had blocked so many things in her lifetime that there were blank periods she could not recall.

"I play fair," he spoke softly, condemning what she had done. She sputtered slightly, opening her mouth, closing it, opening it, and closing it again. He turned to face her, his arms crossing his chest. "You lost, I had won. But you broke the rules. I don't have to fight. You're coming with me." Her eyes widened, words still failed her miserably, only making her feel more stupid each second that silent granted its life to her lips. "Stop gaping, get on your horse. You'll be giving my weapons back soon enough. We both win that way. You get the triumph of getting all my weapons. I have the triumph of defeating you in swordfight." She shook her head, she would not go. She would not go with him.

"No, I won. You did not triumph. You don't fight with truth; you fight with deceit and everything you can do to win!"

"You are wrong, woman. You fight with a sword and fight fair. You fight as dirty as a Woad." Her eyes flared, anger spilling into her veins. Her teeth grinded together as her fists clenched into balls. Her nails dug into her palms, tiny cuts forming with blood oozing slowly from them. "You are angered by that, woman?" A question suddenly struck her. Why would he call her woman? Why not use the common lower class term of wench? Why not call her Lady like the other knights? Why not even by her name? Why did he call her woman as opposed to the more accept terms?

"Tell me, Knight. Why do you call me woman?" Silence granted its life again, gifting them into its deadly embrace. He looked to be thinking his answer over, chewing it until it was a tasteless pulp between his teeth. His hand stroked his beard slowly, almost with an absent minded air. He would choose his words carefully, that she knew. But why with this question? He spoke so freely about everything else. Why now?

"Why do you call me Knight as opposed to my name as the other knights call me?" She stamped her foot angrily, trying desperately to understand this man. Arvakur moved behind her, nudging her slightly causing her body to stutter forward. Her head whipped around to see the great head of her mount turn away and look off into the near trees, watching the watchers. The horse grunted, his eyes moving madly around, worry flooding his normally calm face. Her own face turned to the knight to see if he too had noticed and he had.

The Woads were climbing from their trees.


	7. Author's Note

Edit: I decided to answer your reviews.

Ack. Sorry my dears. Yeah, I know it's against the rules to put up a "chapter" that is only an author's note. Xx; Screw that. I need to tell you guys something. My computer was recently hacked so I lost -all- of Chapter Six. I just got my computer back yesterday. Ahhh. It sucks. I also lost a lot of other written things for people. I'm attempting to finish all this crap so I'm sorry, it's going to take me a while to get the next chapter up. Xx; If you reall want to know what happens in Chapter Six, you can email me and I can sum it up for you. Otherwise, you will need to be patient. Kay, thanks. I'll try to get it done as fast as I can without brutally killing Leilia and such.

Cardeia- I love your reviews. Lol. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

op- Eee. Thank you as well. That is what I strive for. It's nice knowing I can do so.

June Birdie- I will go to the end of the world and back. Lol.

Babaksmiles- Speculation of readers is key to a plot because it keeps the reader interested. They try to figure out along with the author what is happening because I assure you, I am speculating also. Lol. Thank you.

ElvenStar5- I will try to hurry! Lol. Sorry there isn't another chapter and thank you.


	8. Chapter Six

Author's Note: Ack. Okay, I've given up on trying to rewrite my dear chapter six. So, I'm trying something new. I'm not going with what I previously planned. I can make up for time later. xD That's what fillers are for. Anyway, originally you were to learn why the Woads are after Leilia, if that's what they are truly after. HINTHINT. xD And for not allowing you to learn this, I promise to make up for that. xD Which a hint of Lancelot and her connection. Besides, the reason she was being followed needs work anyway. Edit: I may have changed what the Woads are after. Uhm. So, when you read this, it may or may not be what you think. I could change it or you know, make you think I've changed what they're after. Sorry if I confuse you. I can answer any questions you ask, besides what the connection is. Lol.

Finally, excuse me for the crappiness. I will get back into the swing soon enough, my friends.

Silver Salamander – Lol. Glad I could spark an interest. I'm also very glad you see Leilia as not annoyingly perfect. If I ever do so, please smack me over the head. xD So I can bring myself back down to earth.

Cardeia - Mmm. I like this poetry in my prose. I have been told, by my English teacher, that I use much imagery in my writing. I was a writer before a poet. But more and more, I notice a stronger poet then writer. Lol. They're blending together. Xx; Enough so that when the teacher tells the class to use more indirect descriptions and more imagery in their writing and we all try to, she comments on my sheet say things like "I didn't mean you". Lol. Yeah. ramble The province obviously feels that I can write. I got 100 on my PAT (Provincial Achievement Test) Narrative Part One. I promise to show more connection as I move on. I don't want to hint at it in a huge way, y'know? I don't want to outwardly tell you. But I swear that Pant is a huge clue. cough That's a –large- connection to Lancelot… Oops... xD Big clue.

Babaksmiles- Speculation of the reader is key to the growth of characters in their mind, I enjoy it when I read and I want to allow my readers to do so. In fact, I speculate myself. xD I know how it ends, but I don't know how I get there.

June Birdie- As am I. As am I.

Op – Hurray! That is very much what I am working for. Sorry for my lack of updates. Truly, I am.

ElvenStar5 – Ahh! Really sorry. Lol. I'm trying. If you in such a dire need for it, I'm very sorry. Morgan, my dearest co writer friend, and I are debating putting our Fan Fiction up on here. You can credit Morgan for me getting inspired to write again. Lol.

Large thanks to Morgan because she is ever inspiring and also to Cardeia because I really enjoyed reading her fic today and it made me want to write. Also, I thank the artists today, yesterday, and tomorrow because their music is what keeps me writing.

_Chapter Six_

The Woads came down from the trees, weapons drawn as they walked towards them. Leilia looked at Tristan, he didn't show anything. She would have panicked, but she knew Tristan to be a good fighter, that was evident from their fight. Ah, but he didn't not have weapons. That could present a problem. She pushed the thought out of her mind that could be solved quickly; did she not have two swords?

One Woad stepped away from the group, a female. If there was one thing Leilia respected about the Woads was that they held their women in as much esteem as their men. So unlike the Roman pigs. This woman Leilia recognized. She was high up in the ranks of the Woads and this was not the first time they had met. No, they had met before and both that time and this were not on happy terms. "Leilia of the Lake, we meet again." The woman bowed and as did Leilia, both not letting their eyes leave each other. "And Knight Tristan of the Wall, we have never met. But I am told of your great skill with weapons. May we battle in the future and may you be blessed by your gods."

Leilia coughed, gazing at the woman. Woads, she hated them. They surprised you at every turn and when you figured them out they would smack the back of your knees so that you would be thrown off balance. She drew in a deep breath, pulling her thoughts forward, toward the Woad and the rest of the party they had been joined by. She knew that they could possibly defeat them if the Woads tried to attack. But again she remembered Tristan was weaponless and she was not sure giving him a weapon was the best idea. "Leilia, I request a word in private. We do not need the presence of those not involved." This time, it was not her who coughed. She looked to Tristan, raising her brow. He shook his head slightly. Apparently not thinking it best for her to go or perhaps he worried? "Yes, let us."

Branches were pushed from their way as they moved deeper in the forest to get out of the other people's earshot. Both women stopped when they knew they were free of ears. But neither talked. No, each gazed at the other. Both for different reasons. Leilia looked for any possible threats and tried to fix the exact reason the woman had come. She knew this woman to be blunt and for her people. But silence was not the woman's virtue. She was outspoken as were most Woads. But this silence the woman had taken to unnerved Leilia. It made her nervous and maybe the woman knew this. The woman bent, putting her weapons on the floor of the forest, showing a sign of piece. Leilia sighed, following her lead. But she left her garrote safely attached around her wrist, pretending it to be jewelry. She smirked, seeing the Woad's own garrote.

"I've been sent to strike you a bargain, Leilia." The Woad spoke, her chin slightly raised. This was something else Leilia had noticed about her. Pride and arrogance. "Give me what I want and you go free. Don't and well, you understand." Leilia scoffed, staying silent. The other woman shifted her weight, pushing a ringlet of brown away from her eyes. Her roundish face still raised a bit more then Leilia's. "You are never sent to do something. You always do things of your own bidding and for you people. But never when you're told. What is it you want?"

"You know me well, Sarmatian. You know what I want. Don't make this hard. I don't want to have to kill you." The woman crossed her arms, staring back at Leilia who shook her head. "Come now, Leilia. Don't be childish. Give and take. That's all this is. You give, I take, or you steal I return."

"No," Leilia breathed. No, she had waited so long to do what she had, to have stolen what she had. Now she couldn't waste all those plans, all the time spent watching, learning, and memorizing, and all the joy she had felt once she had done it. She felt no guilt. No, the way she saw it, she had deserved it. Besides, they were meant for each other. That she felt in his presence. That she would never give up. He meant the world to her. He meant too much now. "And besides, you wouldn't dare fight me. I beat you last time easily. This time will be no different. Except, maybe this time, I'll kill you and finally be rid of the Pict Princess Guinevere."

There were maybe ten Woads in all. Each stood completely erect, no one lazed, and all their eyes were on him. None spoke to each other. It was easier to be silent when there was noise. Silent in silence was as useful as wet kindling. He sighed, gazing longingly at his weapons tucked away in Arvakur's tack. He would need to figure a way to get them back.

A Woad moved, a smile perking on his previously stone face. "Want to spar, Knight?" Tristan cocked his brow, seeing the Woad gingerly plucking a sword from Arvakur's saddle. "Obviously no killing nor serious injury." He nodded, accepting his sword. He twirled it around, and then touched the blade. His eyes widened. It wasn't his. There were strange markings on it. Runes that he didn't recognize as Roman or Sarmatian. The Woad stepped closer, noticing the look Tristan had fixed on the blade. It shined brightly even in the dingy light of the forest. The hilt was bound tightly in leather and worn from use. But it was polished; care was taken as there was neither a scratch nor any dents. He ran his thumb across the blade; he smirked as a thin trail of blood shone. It had a double edge and the top of the hilt held many stones, also polished to shine. "Is that Leilia of the Lake's sword, Knight?"

"I believe so," he gazed in wonder at the sheer majesty of it. How each edge sliced through the air as he swung the singing blade, how smoothly it moved amazed him. Everything about it amazed him. The meaning of the runes evaded him, they scorched the back of his skull endlessly, and the drive to know what they meant drove his fingers over them obsessively. But what amazed him most was how a rogue, a ranger would come to posses such a sword. Did she steal it? Find it? He doubted that. Was it given to her? Who would own such a sword and give it away? Did she buy it? He smirked, maybe she killed for it.

Okay. I thought I would add in at the bottom that I really did give you clues, even if I didn't bluntly say them. Eh. This is crappy. Sorry. Lol. Remember my obsession over names. All the clues are there. I guess you need to know the Lancelot of the Arthurian Legends and French. xD Omfg. A clue right there! Now, the sword. From where I stand, it lies on both sides of these connections. Lancelot's and the Woad's. Course that could all change.


	9. Chapter Seven

**The Hawk's Cry**

**Cardeia**- Sneaky, sneaky. My Lord. I would write volumes to receive reviews like you give me. Lol. Mmm. I suppose I'm comparing this to some other things I've written, such as, a few of my short stories and my role-plays. Chapter Six wasn't my best by far. Sorry to have confused you. Tristan was not with Leilia. He stayed behind. Though, he did not spar. He was rather caught up with the sword. Guinevere is the female Woad speaking to Leilia. Since I'm in a generally good mood, I would knock off a connection for you. Leilia and Lancelot were never lovers, though; perhaps they did love each other. The next question is what kind of love?

**Silver Salamander**- Lol. The past doesn't always lead to the present, my dear. As well as, a connection in the past may not always affect future connection. So many endings you see, I see only one. But I will let you dawdle and try to figure out which one.

**Sokorra Lewis**- I really didn't like Guinevere in the movie. Lol. She seemed so stuck up. So, I plan to play that up. Lol. Everyone makes her so nice and perfect. I won't though.

**op-** Thank you! I love you for being my reviewer and I mean that.

**BlackPaintedWhite**- All the way from Chapter One. Thank you.

_Chapter Seven_

"Then we now part to meet when I will get it," anger seethed through Guinevere's words, clearly raged that Leilia would threaten her. "I will get it." She stooped, picking up her weapons. Both women locked gazes for a breath's moment before the Woad melted into the greens of the forest. Leilia envied that. She could become invisible in a crowd, stealth anywhere, and could blend into shadows. But to completely disappear into the trees was beyond her. Perhaps one day she would befriend a Woad who would teach her. But at the rate she was going with these Woads, she doubted such a thing would ever happen.

As soon as she regained her mind from dreaming, she wasted no time in rearming herself and returning to Arvakur and the knight. But she stopped, just close enough to the knight's position that she could see the sword he held. Her eyes flashed with crimson. The rage that filled her veins did not mirror Guinevere's, no it far bypassed it. Leilia drew one of her swords, growling as she approached.

"Give me the sword, Knight, or I will slay you here and now." He looked up with an almost startled look. But she knew he was not. No, she could tell he had heard her unsheathe her sword and walk into the small clearing. His eyes stuck to her, not moving except when she did. His mouth twitched slightly. "Give it now." It was an order. She could not handle seeing his hands touch the hilt, the stones, and the blade. No, he had to give it back even if it meant he had to die. She had to have it back. There were only two things that mattered to Leilia. Arvakur and that sword. She loved both.

"And what if I do not return it and decide to use it as leverage?" She watched his eyes slide coolly over the blade, then wisp up to hers. She gripped her sword, feeling her hands sweat. He raised his brow.

"And?" She stepped forward, raising her sword slightly. She was ready to attack, he could tell. She knew he could because he gripped the sword tightly as he raised it as well. He readied himself for her attack with her sword and that made her fume. He could tell that as well. "Your terms." He smirked. She wanted the sword.

"I'll return you your sword when you return with me to Arthur." Arvakur stamped his hoof, nudging the horse beside him. The horse stumbled slightly and nipped at him but he bumped it again only to dance away unharmed. His eyes touched hers. He raised hi head, she followed, and he dropped it, she followed. A sweet whinny moved out to her, she answered by clicking her tongue. She could hear the knight fidget. But she didn't care. No, she just gazed at the roan. He tossed his head and lowered it to feed. Yes, she loved that horse. Her attention turned to Tristan. "No. Different terms.

"Why?" Her eyes widened and her sword lowered as she gazed at him in deep wonder. Why did he want to know? She shook her head, dismissing his question. "Answer, Lady of the Lake." Her eyes narrowed, his didn't. He just looked at her. That gaze coming into play. But there was something in them this time. Curiosity rang through those black eyes like flecks of dirt in a horse's mane. She nearly smiled but held her lips still. Even if he held her prized sword, he interested her and she had no intention of killing him just yet.

"Fine, Knight. You have it your way. Your terms." He raised his brow as she sheathed her sword and mounted her horse. She nodded encouragingly at his horse sarcastically. After he had mounted, she brought Arvakur close. "Just don't scratch it. That is my term." He nodded, putting the magnificent sword into a bag on his saddle.

Both horses lurched into motion as their riders kicked into them. The greens meshed together with the browns, the horses weaving with sure-footed limbs. He watched her, allowing her to lead. Normally Tristan would have wished a slower pace so he could listen for danger but something had snagged in his ways when Leilia had pushed her mount forward, her dark curls licking behind her like a flailing shadow.

The past camp of the knights was empty when they arrived. They both dismounted, leaving their reigns free. The horses were trained to never wonder far. Tristan squatted, his eyes tracing the dirt as his fingers touched the coarse dust. Leilia poked at the embers of a dead fire with a stick. "They are not long gone. Maybe an hour ago, not more. We can catch them if we ride now." He nodded to her words, knowing them already. His head ached with the new questions forming in his head.

"We ride then," he spoke dryly to the already mounted woman. This time he rode lead. But Arvakur kept up easily to his grey pinto. There was something different in traveling with her. Something far different then what it was like with the knights. Though, he spent most of his time away from the group. He was the main scout. He camped away from the group many a time. But he was never lonely. He had his hawk. He glanced back to Leilia but quickly turned his eyes forward when their eyes met. He rather be alone. A slight smile parted at his lips, causing only the corners to lift. He shook his head, lifting his face to the canopy. He closed his eyes, breathing in the forest, and he looked back again. He saw the almost smile she too had played across her face, he returned with his rare nearly smile. She laughed. Silver bells rang around him. He hated the affect that one sound had on him. He couldn't describe the feeling it gave him. No, he could. It made him feel free. It reminded him of home and perhaps it meant something else as well. But he ignored that. His face turned forwards again, watching the edge of the forest come near.


	10. Chapter Eight

**KnightMaiden**- Nor can I wait. xD That is, for Chapter Ten.

**Silver Salamander**- You would not believe how –grateful- I am for you to tell me this. Now, I warn you that in the beginning she gets even more perfect. But I am trying to bring her down from that. You will see that later on. She sorta fell off her horse…. Lol. Any more ideas for unperfectionising her?

**Sokorra Lewis**- I do believe I said somewhere else that I did not like Guinevere. She –is- arrogant. Perhaps her arrogance will come into play later on? Hmm. That's a real thinker. xD I should think about it. I hope you enjoy this instalment as well.

To the rest of my reviews, and to the three I answered, if I –ever- slip at all close to Mary Sue-ism, please! Please! Tell me. xD I get away with myself sometimes. Special thank you to Silver Salamander for doing just that. Enjoy this chapter, my dears.

_Chapter Eight_

Sometimes he liked to just ride and not look back. He used to love the way the wind whipped across his face. He would look up to the sky and call out in a hawk's cry. Down from the clouds a bird would descend, its wings angling into a dive. Then when it was hurtling towards the ground, it would snap its wings out, breaking its decent a few feet from his out stretched arm. He would coo softly, coaxing it to land upon his arm.

That was changing. More and more there would be no time. They were always off saving Roman lives. When they weren't on the orders of Roman Bishops, they were in the tavern getting drunk and choosing a new bed warmer for the night. He personally did not engage in the entire wench picking up. Occasionally he would though. But never in the manner had the other knights. Lancelot made his intentions quite clear. Galahad was a tad more subtle. Gawain teetered between. Dagonet was by far the most discreet. He would calmly choose a barmaid, whisper in her head, and walk away. On the dot, same time every night, they would leave separately. Bors was vocal about his lover Vanora. No one dared to question if Vanora was his only lover. Ah, but Tristan knew. Bors was a one woman man with four bastards to prove it.

Now, Arthur, he was a different story. He drank with his men, but never took a woman to his bed. On one occasion he had. But never after. No one knew why nor would anyone ask. Lancelot had once though. He had made a joke out of it. That was the only time Arthur had ever hit one of his men. Lancelot had a nice sized bruise around his eye for some time after. The jokes about that lasted far longer.

A sigh cut through his silence causing his eyes to flick to the rider beside him. Everything was becoming routine and she appears. He didn't know whether he actually liked her or not. He remembered riding through the forest. Well, he didn't not like her. Tristan squinted forwards, his fingers rolling his reigns between his fingers. He respected the woman beside him if anything. But he didn't trust her. She was not easy to be read, he couldn't tell her intentions. This frustrated and fascinated him. He refused to see the likeliness between himself and her. He looked forward again.

The roan snorted as he stamped his hooves beside the pinto, both riders gazing far out on the horizon. He had expected her to speak but no words had escaped her. From the corner of his eye he watched her gaze out, staring at something along the horizon. Something changed then, something in her eyes, dark and enticing. They had become distant and clouded. He turned his head, looking at her again. Her fingers rubbed her reigns. He could see the worn, shinning leather.

"Who are you?" She looked almost startled at his words. The look that had come over her when Gawain told her she reminded him of someone had darkened her face as it did now. Then her head turned. Her eyes slowly dragging away from what Tristan now realized was north, toward Sarmatia. A lump formed in her throat, curling down her neck before disappearing into her taught skin. He lifted his eyes to hers, inwardly flinching at the spears deep in the blacks of her dark brown orbs. One solid word formed on her lips, coming out with a solid and final tone, "Leilia."

"I know your name. I asked who you are. Why did the Woads call you Leilia of the Lake? Does it have to do with the sword?" His thoughts returned to her possession in his saddlebag. He admired the reflection of the sun hitting the blade. He drew his memory away from the sword, ignoring Leilia's longing gaze. He sighed quietly as he scolded himself for his outburst. She didn't speak. No, he could see her face turn away. Her eyes shedding her longing for a cold glare. Had this been anyone else, he would have pushed her answer as it was part of his training. But something about the way she sat in silence like she was trying to find the answer herself made him not want to. He understood.

"Far north, my tribe believes, that there are more like the Romans. But they do not speak our language or Latin. They have a language all their own." He looked out, trying to see as far as he could. Her voice drifted, becoming almost dream-like. "They are said to live by a huge sea. Bigger than you can imagine. It's like it goes forever and back. Like Sarmatia, you remember?" He nodded sadly. "But it's water, of course." She stopped, taking a breath, and he nodded again. "They call me Leilia or Lady of the Lake because of an old legend. Do you know it?" He shook his head, not daring to look at her because somehow he felt she would know that he had lied. He did know the legend. His tribe also believed. "The Lady of the Lake lives up there. It is she said is a dark beauty." She smiled. "More beautiful then all the maidens of every race. She made a prophecy. The Prophecy of the True King, they call it. There will come a time when war will come and a true king will arise from the ashes of his true homeland. He will rule with love and kindness and he will marry a maiden of the land. And this king will live for ages. Poems will be written and people will remember him forever." She swallowed. "My own tribe believes this legend about this land and our Shaman believes that I am the Daughter of the Lake, I am some great descendent of the Lady of the Lake. He believes I will someday meet this great king and I will tell him the Prophecy of the True King and he will take his rule when I return for the second time. Load of bullshit if you ask me." She laughed again and he looked down, away from the horizon and away from her. Silence caught on, neither of them talked nor made any move for communication. She returned to staring longingly to the north and he chose to drift away into his mind, chewing her story over in his mind and laughing. A king? There would never be a king here. Especially with this Roman rule and the Woads repelling anything.

"A rider approaches from behind, Scout." He could tell she had not looked back to see this. This also fascinated him. But his fascinations would have to wait. He gripped his reigns, ignoring Leilia's bell like giggle at his lack of weapons. Again he was reminded of how he hated the affect this woman's laughter had on him. He hated the way barmaids laughed. It was so forced, so faked. Yet, she laughed at the simplest things. She was probably the type who would hear a joke told by a man trying to win her as a bed mate and stare, just stare as impressed as she could. Then she would laugh at the man later with her friends. He looked over at her, or perhaps she didn't. Perhaps she was the kind to laugh later, out of earshot, alone with only her. Maybe she even spoke to herself like another person. He looked away, she certainly seemed like she would. In any event, if she figured out the affect her laughter had on him, he knew she would use it against him… or maybe she would be flattered. He shook his head. What was he thinking? He pulled the reigns around, his mount following to face the forest. She did the same, but she held a sword, she sheathed it as one hand pulled the reigns. He was impressed. Tristan smirked though as he unsheathed her precious sword. Silently he watched her sheath the one in her hand and pull out his. He grinded his teeth. She didn't smirk, she smiled.

Her lips parted, revealing all her teeth and she laughed again. He wanted to reach over and backhand that smile off her face. Somehow he knew two men would want to have his head. Everyone else would jeer about Tristan hitting a woman and not just any woman. He would have hit a Sarmatian woman. The kind of woman all the knights would kill, literally, to bed. Hey, you remember the time Tristan hit—No one would know. It was only them. A twig snapped. Only the three of them.

The rider moved out into the open, a grin plastered across his unshaven face. Her eyes quickly, almost instinctively dissected him. She mentally noted each of his weapons. He had a bow, a broadsword, a crowbill and a dagger in his boot. But she knew a good warrior would always conceal weapons for an element of surprise, especially these knights. She had learned this when she had searched Tristan. She had found weapons in the oddest places, even built into clothing and armour. She held the same standards for this man. She could not safely assume anything other then that he would be more then it seemed to her eyes.

"My, my, Tristan. You certainly enjoy the absolute best scouting comforts. A woman and a Sarmatian one at that." The other knight eyed her. His eyes slipping over every inch of her exposed skin. He lifted a brow at the bandaging on her leg; it was the only visible one. All her wounds flared under his gaze as if he was pouring salt over them. Tristan was also looking at her. There was something about the way he did it that bothered her. She couldn't stand it. She gripped her reigns tightly as Arvakur danced around on the spot. She felt threatened by the other knight on his chestnut. She rewrapped her fingers around Tristan's sword, noting that fact her tattooed hand needed retouching. "Now, how'd that happen? She has your sword. They say no man can kill you, no Woad it is said can kill you. Yet, a mere woman can get your sword? Perhaps I have forgotten how crafty Sarmatian women are. Who is she?"

"The Lady of the Lady," he spoke softly, as if he did not believe it himself. His eyes moved to touch her face once more. She ground her teeth, glaring at the other scout. Behind the red anger he saw the cold fear. What was she so afraid of? What was she still hiding? Who was she really? He still did not truly know. He turned back to his fellow knight, his face cold but his eyes smirking. She was the Lady of the Lake.

"She is not. That's a tale told to children who can't sleep." He flicked his eyes over to Leilia, making sure not to turn his head. He sensed no rising anger from her. Perhaps, that had not insulted her. Maybe she did not believe she was the Lady of the Lake.

"Do not be so sure, Coward Knight. You downcast upon a legend that could hold to be true." She self-consciously brushed her reign hand over a lump under her cloak and stopped herself when Tristan's eyes flared over it. No, no not yet. She cautioned herself with this new knight. He was more then threatening. She couldn't place it though and it didn't help that she did not wholly trust Tristan. After all, had these men not spent the past ten years becoming like brothers? Pant and her father had told her that was what happened to them. They all became brothers and even more so if you were already brothers. Her thoughts innocently fell onto Lancelot before she could stop herself. Perhaps if he hadn't left… Maybe if he had hidden like she pleaded… She forced thoughts back onto the knights with her. But a not so innocent thought played in her mind. What if she had only been stronger, she could have prevented this. What if she had hit him and dragged him off against his freewill?

"Such childish insults. Bah, no matter. Tristan, orders are we ride northeast. A caravan was attacked by Woads." He grunted and she too noticed the malice the knight held in the word Rome. Completely understandable, she though. Yes, yes she could understand. She could empathize even. Tristan nodded beside her and set into motion in front of the other knight. She followed behind, silent as none spoke.

It did not take long for the trio to gallop into the fight. Three light travelling riders moved rather fast. There was fighting all around them. The evidence of the prior events was easy to see. Everyone was sporting it. There were many Roman soldiers killed and many more dead Woads. Her eyes touched the knights, not in worry. There didn't appear to be many serious wounds. Her vision fell upon Lancelot. Somewhere inside her relaxed as she saw that he held no injuries. But she shut that part of her down and smirked as she watched him decapitate a Woad. Disgusting vermin, she thought.

She heard him and before she could do anything, Tristan unsheathed her sword from her saddle. She growled, watching him disappear into the battle with Ector to aid the other knights. In her hand she gripped her bow; she nocked an arrow and shot it into a soldier's opponent. A stream of arrows screamed from her bow as she aimed and shot every Woad she could, missing some and watching them whiz off in different directions wide of their targets. What was getting into her? She continued until one wrapped his meaty arms around her waist. She dropped her bow and an arrow as she felt the pull. Arvakur squealed as he felt her grip his mane tightly. But she fell, a tuft of long, coarse, and black hair coming away with her. He reared, his horse-scream ringing through her ears as his hooves pounded the earth. She struggled against the squeezing force of the man's legs now around her stomach. If she could only reach her boot…

An arm wrapped around her neck, sealing off her throat. Instinctively she clawed at it, gasping for air. Her eyes watered as she fought against him. Tears streamed her cheeks. She coughed, rasping for help. Her head swam, her eyes grew confused. All she saw was sky. She kicked her legs around, trying desperately to connect with something. But she did not. So instead she tore her hands across his blue painted arm, find her solace in the long lines of blood she drew. The edges of her vision frayed, falling away to redlined black. She blinked, finding it harder and harder to reopen her eyes. Her arms felt like lead, she rasped for help again but it was less then silence in the loud thriving sounds of the battle. Her flame slowly flickered until… until it all stopped. She opened her eyes to a swarm of bleeding colours. Something warm lifted her away. Her body fell into their armour, cool and inviting. Her senses switched off and she slipped further into black.


	11. Chapter Nine

_Chapter Nine_

Part One

He watched her bow and arrow fall. Her arms desperately groped for something to hold as a Woad yanked her from her saddle. Her fingers closed around her mount's mane, pulling a tuft away as she fell. For a moment she disappeared from his view, but the horse reared. There she was. The Woad choking the life from her. He yelled, his sword slicing into the gut of an on coming Woad. He had to get to her. She couldn't die. No, not now. Not when he was this close.

So he ran. Woads coming at him like they sensed his intentions. One swung an axe over his head before brining it down to connect with Lancelot's sword. He pushed it away, spinning around him to stab one then the other sword into his back. He yanked them out, splattering blood across his face, and slashed another, progressing slowly across the battlefield. He moved through another Woad, not stopping to decapitate it as he normally would. There was no time for finishing moves. He had to get to Leilia. He had to. There was nothing else important to him in this world at this moment. He could not stand to lose her again. It would be his fault. His fault yet again. He should have listened to her. He should have.

Only a few yards away there she was. Her mouth making out the word help over and over in silence. The battle was dying around him. Yet there he was, a tall lumbering Woad preventing him from getting to her. He held a large war-axe and an equally big mace at his sides. Lancelot swallowed, rushing forward with his swords. They clanked loudly against the axe. The Woad roared, swinging his mace into Lancelot's unguarded chest. He flew backward, thudding into a dead Roman. The Woad moved forward and waited for Lancelot to rise. He did. It ran toward him, he ducked away and slashed across its back. The Woad roared again, spinning around with his weapons flailing. Lancelot saw his change. He stabbed both his blades into the Woad's soft stomach, ripping them out quickly. Once the Woad was on his knees, he thrust a blade into its neck.

He finally tore away, readying himself to kill Leilia's attacker. The horse snapped at a Woad, coming away with a large chunk of flesh. Lancelot shuddered as he stalked around it and his heart sank. Tristan slashed at the Woad, effectively dislodging Leilia from it. Then he twitched the sword only slightly across its neck and he fell limp under Leilia's already limp form. Tristan sheathed his sword, stooping to pick her p. Their eyes met and the scout turned away. Little had Lancelot known that he was not the only one to have witnessed Leilia's topple. He gnawed on his cheek and too turned away to count the dead. No Woads had been left alive. Disgusting vermin, he thought.

Part Two

He flicked his sword around, slashing across a Woad's neck. How he loved his own sword. He spun around gracefully, bringing his sword across another Woad's chest to his hip. Tristan side stepped past yet another only for it to fall at his feet. He spun again, turning to meet the war-hammer of a female. He felt no remorse in her death or in any other he had caused. Long ago his teacher had taught him how to shut himself away during battle. His teacher had told him you die a little every time you took a life. So it was not Tristan who really killed. He watched from his head. It felt as thought he watched another do it. But despite that, he felt as though his detachment too could suffer from these deaths. Part of him was a monster, a murderer and he could not stop it nor control it. When he had created his safe place, he had also created a prison. He was no a machine that killed and he had no power to command him to stop. Not when he was locked away and he was too afraid to leave this prison for fear he feel what it was like to kill.

Stepping over the woman's body, he looked around in his moment of peace. Every knight was fighting, every solder was also. That is, all but Lancelot. He gazed across the battlefield at something. Tristan followed his sight and saw what had fixed the other knight's attention. There she was, groping her mount tightly as a Woad, clearly stronger then her, yanked her repeatedly. She could handle herself, this he knew. He turned his eyes, searching for the tree line for anymore Woad reinforcements. None were coming. Good, he thought. That meant it would soon be over. He slipped his vision back to Leilia in time to watch her finally fall. Two seconds passed, her horse reared. She was thrashing around. His heart skipped a beat, the Woad was strangling her.

The double-cluck of his tongue brought his pinto mare to his side. "Sky, speed!" His mount sprung forward, hooves thundering across the battlefield. Tristan swung his sword to chop at a Woad as Sky mobbed by. He could have sworn that she did not touch the ground. Even in her growing age, she was at the top of her game. But he couldn't help but feel a fleeting hope that she was quick enough.

Woads advanced towards him and he swung and sliced through them, watching as if it was not him holding the sword. Sky snapped at one Blue Ghost, but bit into thin air. The woman stumbled back in fear. Tristan lazily cut her across the throat as they moved by, picking their way slowly now as the bodies were more littered here. They were only a few yards away. From the corner of his eye he saw Lancelot advance towards a large Woad.

But his attention turned back to Leilia. She was losing her battle. Her eyes were bloodshot and blank. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Panic shone in the tiny beads of sweat that plastered her curls to her face. He moved in closer on foot, leaving Sky to terrorize whatever she pleased. The Woad did not hear nor see him coming. Leilia stared right at him, but he could tell by the glassy sheen that she had not seen him. Her eyes rolled back and her arms fell limply. He swore under his breath as he moved smoothly forward. Her roan bit an advancing Woad and took a sizeable chunk away, then went to snap again at a profusely bleeding Woad. He flicked his sword across her attacker's already bloody arm. It let her free. Another slash and its life was severed. He stooped as he sheathed his sword and picked the Sarmatian up gently. He looked up to see Lancelot glaring slightly at him. Tristan mentally shrugged, turning away as he made his way to Sky. Her roan followed closely, protectively behind. He felt the horse's hot, rank breath on his shoulder.


	12. A note

This is a quick note for everyone! I've written chapter 10 and 11. I'll type them up and upload them as soon as I have a computer. I'm on a school computer, if you were wondering. I send my love!


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